Page 61 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“Yup,” I say, keeping my eyes facing forward.
“Not mine. Been to many.”
Good for him.
“Probably because you lived here your whole life,” I say, and it comes off bitchier than I want it to. And even though I’m not a fan of Atlas Maxheimer, it doesn’t mean I should make snide comments. So I look in his direction and attempt to adjust the tone of my voice and the sharpness of my words. “Which, you know, gives you time to attend such events like this all the time, but people who just come to visit, it’s hit or miss, you know, but you live here so you get to go all the time, and that’s neat.”
That’s neat?
Yup, let the rambling begin.
“It is neat,” he says with a nod as his eyes dart away. “I was actually in the Christmas Kringle competition last year.” He makes eye contact with me. “I won.”
I don’t know why, but the way he says it with such pride, like he’s flashing a gold medal he won at the Olympics, makes me laugh. Which in turn causes his brows to turn down.
His bushy brows.
“I’m serious. I won. You can ask anyone around us.” He taps the guy in front of us. “Who won the Christmas Kringle last year?”
The man with a rather thick mustache under his nose looks Atlas up and down. “I don’t know... Santa Claus?” Then he turns around on a huff, causing me to laugh even harder.
“Clearly not a townie,” Atlas grumbles. “I can look it up on my phone.”
“It’s fine. I believe you.”
“But do you really?”
“Does it actually matter?” I ask. “Not even sure why we’re talking to each other.”
He shrugs. “Awkward silence.”
“Not really silent. The competition has started,” I say.
He glances out toward the gym and then back at me. “Guess so.” Then he leans forward on his quads and focuses on the competition, leaving the awkward silence to fill up between us again.
I’ll be honest, I don’t like awkward silence either, but I know if I let myself try to fill it, I’ll end up saying things that I shouldn’t be saying or that I don’t want to be saying to him.
Like... how when I was six, there was a brief, and I mean very brief, moment in my life that I would collect my hair from when I got it cut, and I would put it in a clear box as a memento.
That’s not something anyone needs to know.
But that’s what the rambling does to me.
After a few seconds, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance down to see it’s from Storee, just as Atlas pulls his phone out as well.
Storee:Sorry to do this to you, but Flo blew right through her pants, and I forgot to pack a spare set of clothes. Mom brain. She’s currently wrapped in a blanket on the bottom half. We have to head home. But have fun. It’s exciting to watch.
Crap.
Seriously?
What are the chances?
I let out a sigh just as Atlas pockets his phone.
“Assuming you just got the same text,” he says, seeming none too thrilled.
“Florence needs new pants?” I ask.
